American Idiot
by xheavilybrokenx
Summary: The story of St. Jimmy and Jesus of Suburbia. **rated M mainly due to all the cussing. And other stuff too, but nothing graphic**
1. American Idiot

**American Idiot**

Chapter One: American Idiot

Jimmy walked down the beaten streets of Jingletown, pausing briefly to stare in an electronic store window. His haunted blue eyes stared back, then flicked up, glancing at the row of TVs, each one baring George Bush's face. He was giving a speech about Iraq, making Jimmy scowl in disgust. He _hated _Bush. The speech ended a few minutes later, cutting to an army recruitment commercial. Jimmy's scowl deepened, making him look even scarier than his black eyeliner- which was in dark circles around his eyes, similar to a raccoon- and liberty-spiked black hair ever could.

Jimmy looked around. Two teenage boys not much older than he were having a shootout a few streets over, a woman was being brutally attacked in an alley, and window shattering screams echoed from a house three blocks away. _Another day in Suburbia, _he thought with a touch of bitterness. His thoughts were interrupted by the store's owner.

"Hey!" the store owner shouted, brandishing a shotgun. "Get outta here!" Jimmy gave him the bird, then darted away as a gunshot rang out. He ran down a back alley, passing a group of brawling men, then jumped a short chain link fence that led into the dying backyard of his trashy house. He crawled through the window of the basement, entering his room.

The weathered brick walls were covered with a mix of graffiti and band posters. A ratty cot lay in the corner, concealing Jimmy's drug stash. A black Fender Stratocaster hung from a peg on the wall, the amp beside it on the floor. Jimmy snatched the guitar and collapsed on his cot. He produced a pick from the front pocket of his plaid skinny jeans and stummed a few chords, then grabbed what appeared to be a day planner from under the cot.

The inside cover said DAY SCHEDULE in big block writing, with a chart below it for organizing dates and times. Jimmy scrawled in a number one next to Sunday and wrote AMERICAN IDIOT. On the next page, which was lined, he began to write.

1. AMERICAN IDIOT  
Don't want to be an American Idiot  
Don't want a nation under the new media  
CAN YOU HEAR THE SOUND OF HYSTERIA?  
The subliminal mind, fuck America  
Welcome to a new kind of tension  
All across the alienation  
Where everything isn't meant to be ok  
Television dreams of tomorrow  
We're not the ones meant to follow  
For that's enough to argue  
Maybe I am the faggot America  
I'm not a part of a redneck agenda  
Now everybody, DO THE PROPAGANDA!  
And sing along to the age of paranoia  
Don't want to be an American Idiot  
One nation controlled by the media  
Information age of hysteria  
Calling out to IDIOT AMERICA

Shortly after he finished writing, Jimmy heard footsteps on the stairs that led to the basement. He threw the day planner across the room, where it landed in a mixture of filthy clothes and rotting food. His mother appeared, barely dressed, with her new boyfriend, Brad.

"Oh, you're down here," she said, with a touch of disappointment. Jimmy glared up at her with his deepest scowl yet. "Let's go somewhere else, Brad," and with that, she scurried back up the stairs. Brad remained.

"Listen, you little fucker, and listen good," Brad began nastily. "There's gonna be some changes around here, and if you wanna keep living under this roof," he paused and pointed up for effect,"then you gotta follow them." Jimmy glared at him.

"Go fuck yourself, asshole," he said, flipping Brad off. He replied by punching Jimmy in the jaw. As Brad turned to leave, Jimmy, whose mouth was now trailing a thin line of blood, took a nearby empty beer bottle and hurled it at Brad, hitting him squarely in the shoulders. Brad whipped around, green eyes blazing, and he probably would've killed Jimmy if his mother hadn't come back down.

"Brad, what's taking so long?" she whined. _Horny much? _thought Jimmy.

"Coming now, Ginger," Brad replied, irritated. "You," he pointed at Jimmy,"are one lucky bastard." He walked back up the stairs.


	2. Jesus of Suburbia

Chapter 2: Jesus of Suburbia

_Jimmy stood in front of the pharmacy, an unlit cigarette in his mouth. After what seemed like hours of staring through the windows of the pharmacy, he strode in, fake prescription form in hand. He walked to the counter and shoved the form at the frightened pharmacist. As she scurried off to fill the prescription, which was for ritalin, Jimmy quickly stuffed a few soda cans into his black jacket. The pharmacist returned, and the bottle of ritalin joined the soda cans._

The rest was a blur.

All that Jimmy could remember of his childhood were snippets of getting high, harassing neighbors, shoplifting, and being beaten by his dad, who died of a heroin overdose, leaving Jimmy and his mother alone and in poverty. Now, at seventeen, drug addictions had claimed what few happy memories Jimmy had.

Feeling reminiscent- and hating every minute of it- Jimmy swung his guitar bag over his shoulder, which contained not only his guitar, but most of the drug stash, and stalked out the back door of his house. Jimmy passed through street after street until he reached the bridge at the edge of town. Tall trees grew on low ground underneath the bridge. Jimmy, taking no heed for what might else might be hidden in the trees, slid down the side of the embankment. He pushed through the branches and bushes until he found what he was looking for: a large group of maybe a hundred punk runaways.

Jimmy was not a newcomer to this group. He often dealt drugs to the runaways and even looked after a few. He was a more or less their leader; they called him the Jesus of Suburbia, savior of the rebels, and he called them The Underbelly. Jesus was about to test his followers' loyalty.

As he set his guitar bag down, a large group gathered around Jimmy.

"Any more pot, Jesus?" asked a girl with a blue mohawk.

"Hell no," he replied. "It's for me." The group responded with some moaning, and lots of cussing.

"I'm leaving," Jimmy announced. The group fell silent. "I'm sick of this fucking town!"

"What about the drugs?" asked the same mohawked girl. "You're the best dealer here."

"No shit," spat Jimmy. "If you want 'em that bad, you'd follow me." This gave the group mixed reactions. Some immediately stepped forward and volunteered to go with Jimmy, others looked repulsed at the idea.

"Tunny!" yelled Jimmy, addressing a tall, lanky 18-year-old boy who was attempting to steal Jimmy's guitar bag.

"What?" Tunny snapped. "I'm coming with you, don't piss yourself."

"I didn't give a shit whether you came or not," Jimmy said venomously. "I don't care if anyone comes."

"Fuck you!" shouted several people at the back of the crowd.

"Everyone's so full of shit!" yelled Jimmy, his mood rapidly turning sour as a side effect of the ritalin he had gotten high off of earlier that day. "You're all fucking hypocrites. You claim to be rebels, but you do nothing! You waste your life! You're stereotypes, posers! This city is damned. I don't care. No one cares."

"But where are we supposed to go?" asked a girl with bleached blond hair.

"I won't apologize if there ain't nowhere you can go," snapped Jimmy. "I don't care! Come with me, fine, don't come, fine! I don't fucking care!"

Before anyone could respond, Jimmy flipped everyone off, snatched up his guitar bag, climbed back up the embankment, and stole across the bridge.


	3. Holiday

Chapter 3: Holiday

By the time Jimmy had reached the trashy city next to Jingletown, night had fallen and it was beginning to rain. Many were enjoying it, particularly the two boys making cat calls at a hooker with a now-soaked T-shirt, but to Jimmy, the rain felt like flames tearing at his very essence. He ducked into the bar across the street, instantly relaxing as the mixed smell of pot and alcohol filled his nostrils. He took a seat on a bar stool and glanced around. The lighting was very dim and Jimmy's eyes were slow to adjust, but after a while, Jimmy could make out his surroundings.

He spotted grimy walls and tables occupied by a variety of people, many of which seemed to be prostitutes and drug dealers. A few stools away from him sat two men conversing loudly about politics. Their conversation seemed so out of place in a skanky bar like this that Jimmy almost laughed. Almost.

"He's only doing it for the good of the country," protested the man furthest from Jimmy, who looked as if he had stumbled into the wrong building. His clothes were much finer than any of the other occupants' and he looked very well-groomed. By contrast, the other men in the bar appeared incredibly unhygienic. Perhaps he was from another town.

"Look, all's I know is that this place sucks," replied the other man, who seemed to fit in with the crowd. "Bush sucks, the U.S. sucks, they all suck."

"And you swallow!" shouted someone from the back. The bar briefly filled with laughter.

"No, he's right," said one of the drug dealers. "You know when they don't allow pot that there's something wrong here." More laughter. Jimmy rolled his eyes and ordered a beer, putting his fake ID to use. As he drank silently, more and more people joined in the discussion.

"Rape's illegal, there's definitely something wrong."

"Why would you rape anybody when this city is crawling with call girls?"

"They're too fucking expensive!"

"Good, you can't afford us. You're fugly as shit," one of them replied.

"You know you want me," the man shouted. The hooker looked disgusted.

"Hey, hands off, that's MY ho!" shouted another man.

Jimmy drank beer after beer contentedly as he watched fist fights and arguments break out. The pro-Bush man finally left the bar with a disgusted look on his face, as if he had just trod in dog poo.

As the din of the fights grew louder and people debated over ridiculous laws, a very drunken Jimmy got to his feet and spoke.

"This is how the government works," he declared. Everyone turned to look at him. "Zieg Hiel to the president gasman," he continued, with a drunken salute. "Bombs away is your punishment. Pulverize the Eiffel Towers who criticize your government. Bang! Bang! goes the broken glass, just kill all the fags that don't agree." Every occupant of the bar stared blankly at him, trying to work out what he had just said.

"I don't know about you," Jimmy said,"but trials by fire setting fire is not a way that's meant for me." The bar buzzed with muttering and whispers. Jimmy sat back down and chugged another beer as if nothing had happened.

A man approached Jimmy and grumbled,"You're coming with me. Bring your beer." Then he turned to face the other occupants and yelled,"I'm gonna go have myself a little fun! Vandalism is as beautiful as a rock in a cop's face! Who's with me?" and with that said, he strode out of the bar dragging a staggering Jimmy. Several followed.

There was much that Jimmy did not remember about that night. He didn't remember getting into the man's car, stealing guns, and shooting at random passersby. He didn't remember writing "Jesus of Suburbia" on every bare brick wall. He didn't remember getting high off meth amphetamine. He didn't even recall sneaking into a flea ridden motel room with a girl he had met on the streets.

All Jimmy knew was when he woke, he was lying on a dusty road with a pounding headache and the taste of bile in his mouth.


	4. Boulevard of Broken Dreams

Chapter Four: Boulevard of Broken Dreams

Since he was unaware of his location, Jimmy concluded that his best chance was to walk. _I'll end up in a city eventually, _he thought as he trudged along the dusty road.

In reality, it took him a week to reach civilization. Within the first two hours, he grew hungry. After a few days, for lack of anything better to do, he began to reflect on his life, an activity Jimmy considered dangerous.

He thought of his childhood. How kind his father, Peter, was before they hit hardships, all the fantasies of what grown up life would be like. Jimmy had wanted to be a lawyer back then. He loved to argue and was great at it; he won nearly every argument he got into. It seemed a realistic dream, too; there constant stream of money from his dad's music career and his mom, Ginger, had a high-paying job as a therapist. Combined, it would pay for school. His parents were very loving then; Jimmy's life was good. He was convinced that it would stay that way forever. However, he was unaware of the trouble brewing beneath all the good times and happy thoughts.

Peter and Ginger's marriage grew rocky. Peter was rarely home and the times he was, he and Ginger would have bitter arguments, from which the left over anger would be taken out on Jimmy. Peter became so sick of it that he rarely came home at all. Ginger, feeling unloved and hopeless, began to have an affair with a client of hers. Jimmy was often neglected around that time. Once outgoing and playful, he quickly became shy and jaded. The last night Peter came home was the last night Jimmy would ever see him again. He walked through the door high and barely able to walk. He staggered over to the couch, where he lay, watching TV. Shortly after Jimmy joined him, Peter stumbled into the kitchen. Within minutes, Jimmy heard a sickening thud, and he sprinted into the kitchen to find Peter lying on the ground, dead.

What happened after that, he could not remember. It was all a blur of screaming and crying. Jimmy's own screams, Jimmy's own tears. Ginger, though a little sad and shaken, did not share Jimmy's grief. She reveled in the fact that she no longer had to keep her affair a secret. Jimmy was neglected more than ever and left to fend for himself at the tender age of nine. He wandered the dangerous city streets, occupying his time by loitering in front of drugstores and taking ritalin whenever he came across it. Jimmy's life became a whirlwind of drugs, sex, and crime, and at his age, he didn't even know any better. With his mother absent from showing him right from wrong, he learned from the people on the streets, from the movies he watched, from the posters he saw, from the music he listened to. This was all he knew.

Jimmy pondered this as he walked and walked. A thought occured to him. _I am so fucked up, _he realized. _It's not really even my fault._

What had happened to all his dreams, all his hopes? Some died slowly over time, others were crushed the instant his father died. Jimmy's broken dreams and troubled past haunted him as he walked, lonely and tired. His thoughts, exhaustion, and welled up depression were overwhelming. He took a single step further, then collapsed on the hard ground.

He dreamed (or was it a hallucination?) of an empty street in a dark city. The lights were out, and he was the only one still walking around. The street was abandoned; there wasn't even a single parked car. Jimmy continued to walk and came to an intersection. The road he walked along was still bare, but the others were filled to the brim with people. One street contained many successful families, their children running around and playing, the adults conversing happily. He thought he even glimpsed his own parents on that street, joined by a small boy with brown hair. Jimmy knew that this was him as a child. Across from that was a street inhabited by wealthy-looking people, sacks of money clutched in their hands. They appeared to be happy and full of life, occasionally jingling the money they held in their hands. One man in a crisp suit appeared to be a lawyer. Jimmy merely sighed and continued down the path he walked.

The next intersection he came to was very different from the last. To the right were many couples, some proposing, some making out, some just standing around, talking. No matter what they were doing, they seemed to be at least content with themselves and their circumstances. To the left stood people of all occupations: zoologists, policemen, lawyers, journalists, waiters, even a few hot dog stand workers. They, too, seemed relatively content. Jimmy walked on.

This time, the change between intersections was drastically different. On either side of Jimmy were people of all ages with glum expressions. Many were crying. Jimmy glanced around and recognized the brown-haired boy once more. He was sitting against a wall with an expression of mixed anger and depression. A man offered him pills and he took them. Jimmy turned away and continued to walk.

Upon first glance, he thought the next intersection was empty. Then he realized in horror and disgust that it was not; there were human skeletons littered all over the ground. They all clutched things in their hands. For some, it was money. Others carried drugs, rings, and even knives. Jimmy, who was rather horrified, sprinted away as fast as he could.

He woke with a start. _Am I alive? _Jimmy wondered. He checked his pulse. _Dammit._ He looked around, wishing that someone had come to find him, but he was alone, as per usual. _I guess I should keep walking,_ he thought, his hopes trampled. Then Jimmy realized what lay before him, perhaps a mile away: a city skyline.

He had reached the city.


	5. Are We The Waiting

Chapter Five: Are We The Waiting

As Jimmy reached the outskirts of the city, his heart sank. He was back in Jingletown.

_Brilliant, _he thought,_ I leave this shit town to move on to bigger and better things and this is where I end back up. _Night was falling fast as Jimmy walked the broken streets of his home town. Despite the bright lights from all the skyscrapers and street lamps, the stars were still visible. Jimmy noticed this as he headed for the bridge he took last time.

At the entrace to the bridge, he realized who dwelled beneath it around the same time they called out to him. "Shit," he murmured. With much hesitation, he walked under the bridge.

"Jesus! We've been waiting for you!" said one girl excitedly.

"Yeah, things have gone downhill since you left," a boy said with a trace of accusation. There was a buzz of excitement as everyone welcomed Jimmy. Through all the greetings, however, Jimmy's face remained blank.

"You did know we would wait for you, right?" the girl inquired. Jimmy's face was still blank.

"Nope," he replied. Instantly, the crowd that had gathered around Jimmy fell into a mood of mixed anger and hurt.

"But we're your disciples!" shouted one. "You're the Jesus of Suburbia! We're your disciples!" Jimmy snorted.

"So you're followers. All of you," he replied. The crowd grew angrier, and several people started yelling at Jimmy at the same time.

"We're not fucking followers, how dare you even-"

"What the hell is wrong with you, we're only trying to-"

"We're not a fucking herd of sheep, you're just a-"

"SHUT UP!" roared Jimmy, his temper flaring. Everyone fell silent. "You _are_ followers! Every one of you! You do everything I do, obey every command I give you, regard me as some sort of king! No matter what you call it, disciple, supporter, whatever, it's all the same! You're all FOLLOWERS!" At this point, half the crowd realized what he was saying. The other half was absolutely pissed. "How can you call yourselves non-conformists when you yourself conform? You conform to ME. Anything I do, you do. Do your own thing!" Jimmy continued. "We all conform to something, it's impossible not to. But you're followers." He paused, and the crowd started whispering.

"And what's more, the Jesus of Suburbia is a lie."


	6. Author's Note

I'm sorry I haven't been able to finish the story. I've been incredibly busy with school, and also, a new Green Day CD is coming out in may that is a follow-up of American Idiot. So, to better this story, I'm going to wait until the new CD comes out so I can have an overall better understanding of the plotline. Thanks for your patience :)


	7. Another author's note

Okay, so, I'm back. I pretty much gave up on this story because I felt like I didn't do it much justice- I didn't plan it out at all. Plus, my writing style has changed a lot since I started writing this. I finally looked at all the reviews and saw that a lot of you actually like what I've written, so I've decided that I will not only continue it, I'll rewrite it. It's going to take time because I've got a lot going on, but I'll do what I can. This time, I'm actually going to plot out everything and try to reach a better understanding of the characters.

I've also decided that I'm not going to write a story for 21st Century Breakdown. I listened to the CD once or twice and was actually really disappointed with it. It didn't have the same drive that American Idiot had.

Thanks for all the support and patience! I promise I'll get this done, and do it right this time.


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